The castle stood open. The gate itself, a tremendous construct of timbers the size of tree trunks and lashed with iron, had been raised, as it was every day. During the tour, Geraden had showed her the gigantic winches that cranked the gate up into the wall above its architrave. Ahead of her, the Castellan was forming his men into an honor guard to greet the lord of the Care of Tor. A trumpeter blew an announcement. Geraden took her as close as the guards permitted to the place where the Tor’s riders would enter Orison and dismount. There they stopped.
The riders were on the road outside the castle. They had almost reached the gate, despite their mourning pace. She saw now that the men were all in black. The breath of the horses steamed silver in the iron cold, but their trappings were black. Black draped the litter that four of the mounts supported from their saddles. The man who led the group hid his face under a black hood, and a black cloak was wrapped around him.
This figure was so fat that Terisa wondered how his horse could bear his weight.
He led his riders toward Castellan Lebbick, then halted within the precise formation of the honor guard. Their horses seemed to sag under the burdens they carried.
‘Greetings, my lord Tor,’ the Castellan said gruffly. His shoulders were braced as if they had the weight of the whole winter on them; the purple band across his forehead emphasized the anger of his eyebrows. ‘You are welcome in Orison. No matter what reason has brought you here at such a time, you are welcome.’
Slowly, the Tor raised his black-gloved hands and lifted his hood, revealing thin white hair that straggled from his pale scalp, features the shape and color of cold potatoes, bleak eyes. His fat cheeks were hurt with cold.
In a husky voice, he rasped, ‘I will see the King.’
The sharpness of the air made everything distinct. Terisa saw the shadow of a wince pass across Lebbick’s hard face. ‘My lord Tor,’ he replied, ‘King Joyse has been informed of your coming. At present, he is busy with other matters.’ He couldn’t keep his disdain for those ‘other matters’ out of his tone. The King was probably playing hop-board. ‘I’m sure he’ll grant you an audience shortly.’
The clouds sealing the sky were the color of tombstones. Cold seemed to close around the courtyard. For a long moment, the Tor didn’t move or speak. His eyes blinked as if he were going blind. Then, with a grunt of effort, he heaved his leg over the back of his horse and dismounted. The guards were silent. The champing of the horses and the squelching sound of his boots in the mud could be heard clearly as he moved like an old man among his people toward the litter.
From the litter, he lifted in his arms the black-draped shape of a man or woman who must have been taller than he was. He didn’t look strong enough to bear so much weight; nevertheless he cradled the body against his belly, carrying it forward until he stood directly in front of Castellan Lebbick.
In the same dried-out, hollow voice, he said, ‘This is my first son. I will see the King.’
Now the Castellan’s distress was unmistakable. ‘Your son, my lord Tor? That’s a terrible loss.’ Terisa remembered that Lebbick was acquainted with loss. ‘All Mordant will sorrow with you. How did he die?’
For a moment, a flicker of passion lit the Tor’s speech. ‘His face was torn away by a wolf such as Mordant and Cadwal and Alend together have never known. Do you care to see the wound?’ He extended the shrouded body toward Lebbick.
But almost at once his energy faded. Dully, implacably, he repeated, ‘I will see the King.’
‘That won’t be possible.’ Castellan Lebbick sounded thick and hoarse, like a man in pain. ‘King Joyse doesn’t yet grant you an audience.’
Through the silence, the riders at the Tor’s back muttered curses. How far had they ridden in order to present the Tor’s slaughtered son to his King?
Abruptly, Geraden left Terisa’s side. Striding through the mud as if he couldn’t be held back by any slip or accident – as if he had forgotten his talent for mishap – he went toward the Tor. The boyish prance-and-fumble of exuberance and mistake was gone from his manner entirely. The way his chestnut hair crowned the strong lines of his face made him look incontestable, as sure of himself as if he had power and knew how to use it.
Ignoring Castellan Lebbick’s fierce glare, he said, ‘My lord Tor, I am Geraden, youngest son of the Domne. In the name of my father and all his family, please accept my grief. King Joyse will see you. When he hears why you have come, he will see you.’
‘Geraden,’ the Castellan snarled in an undertone, ‘be warned. You forget yourself, whelp.’
At once, Geraden turned toward Lebbick. ‘No, Castellan.’ He had become taller almost without transition, certain of his authority. ‘Be warned yourself. You may despise me as much as you wish. But the day has not yet come when you may despise the Domne. I speak in his name.
‘In his name, I claim the responsibility. Let it crush me if it will. The King will see my lord Tor.’
The Tor said nothing. He stood there with his son in his arms as though he had been stricken mute, unable to articulate his grief except by demanding the King’s acknowledgment of it.
A snarl twisted Castellan Lebbick’s mouth. His hands knotted at his sides. After a moment, he said softly, ‘You can try, whelp. Gestures like that come cheaply to those with no duty – to those who can ignore the consequences of what they do. It’s my place to ensure that King Joyse is obeyed, and I will do it’ – his fist beat the words against his thigh – ‘if I must.’
Then he stepped aside. With a barked command, he ordered the honor guard to do the same.
Geraden put his hand on the Tor’s arm to help support the great weight of what the man carried. Together, they moved toward the nearest open door. Perhaps a dozen guards took formal positions behind them and followed.
Terisa started after them.
The Castellan stopped her with a hard gesture. ‘No, my lady. There’s harm enough here without your contribution.’ He spat the words like gusts of steam. ‘I won’t expose my King’s plight to a woman of your dubious allegiance.’
Raising his voice, he instructed two of his guards to return the lady Terisa of Morgan to her rooms.
For a moment, she stood right on the edge of resisting him, though she had never done anything like that before and wouldn’t have been able to do it if she had thought about it in advance. She wanted to go with Geraden. If anything could be done for the Tor, she ached to do it. But the quality of Lebbick’s glare pushed her back. It was outraged and extreme, and it seemed to say that if she forced him to do her violence she would drive him mad.
She turned to the men he had assigned and let them take charge of her.
As she slogged through the mud, she heard Castellan Lebbick stiffly welcome the Tor’s retinue and offer the riders and their mounts Orison’s best hospitality. Then he went after the Tor and Geraden himself.
Back in her rooms, with her boots cleaned as well as possible and drying in the bathroom, she reflected that the Tor had obviously not come to Orison in response to any summons from the Perdon. On the other hand, what difference did the Tor’s reasons for being here make now? His presence was what mattered. It worked in Master Eremis’ favor.
Master Eremis wasn’t a comfortable subject of contemplation. His absence gave her a secret ache of frustration and fear. Nevertheless thoughts of him were an improvement over the image of the Tor which remained with her – the fat old man standing ankle-deep in mud, his dead son in his arms and his eyes bleak with grief. When her mother had died, and Terisa had dared to cry, her father had hit her, once, to make her stop. Then he had gotten drunk for the first and only time she could remember. Then he had begun bringing other women into the house as though his wife had never existed. Terisa definitely preferred thinking of Master Eremis.
An hour or so passed before she realized how restless she was. She wasn’t ordinarily a woman who paced, but now she caught herself tensely measuring the rugs and stone of the floor – waiting for Geraden. He h
ad stood up to the Castellan. She felt that it was a long time since she had seen so much strength in him. Surely he would come tell her what had happened?
He did. Before lunchtime, she heard a knock on her door. When she answered it, she found Geraden outside.
He looked like a little boy. His eyes were still puffy from crying, and the expression in them was so forlorn that she wanted to put her arms around him.
She couldn’t go that far. A lifetime of inhibition held her: she had never learned how to reach out to other people. But instinctively, without gauging what she did, she put her hand on his arm and breathed, ‘Oh, Geraden. What happened?’
He tried to compose himself, but the effort only made him harsh. ‘He got to see the King. Being the Domne’s son is good for that, at least. I just didn’t let anybody say no to me. But King Joyse didn’t—’
Then his throat closed on the words, as if they hurt too much to come out. For a moment, his features knotted. He glanced rapidly at the guards on either side of the door. ‘Please, Terisa. I can’t talk about it out here in the hall.’
Her heart was beating double time. ‘Come in,’ she gulped. ‘I’m being stupid. I didn’t mean to keep you standing there.’
With her hand still on his arm, she drew him into the sitting room.
If he hadn’t been struggling so hard to contain himself – and if she hadn’t been so awkward – they might have hugged each other. But he looked untouchable in his distress, and she had to step away to close the door. When she turned back to him, he was standing with his elbows pressed against his sides and his hands in fists over his heart.
‘Oh, Geraden,’ she murmured again. ‘Geraden.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on.’ His voice was still harsh, clenched. He was trying to shore up something inside himself. ‘I swear I don’t understand it.
‘It wasn’t hard to get in to see him. All I had to do was ignore the guards at the door when they told me the King was busy. Under the circumstances, they weren’t likely to stand in the Tor’s way.
‘King Joyse and Adept Havelock were playing hop-board. You probably guessed that. What else,’ he asked acidly, ‘would make him too busy to see the man who got him started on the road to becoming King of Mordant? But he didn’t seem to resent the interruption. When I barged in, he left his game to welcome us. And he smiled the way he does – the way that makes you want to lie down in front of him so he can walk on you.
‘Then he saw what the Tor was carrying. I told him who it was. And for a few moments there I thought I had finally done the right thing. For once in my life, I had finally done the right thing.
‘He seemed to remember his strength and call it back from somewhere. Suddenly, he was taller, bigger, and his eyes flashed. “How was this done?” he demanded. The Tor couldn’t speak, so I said, “Imagery. Some kind of strange wolf.” Gambling that I knew what I was doing, I said, “Look at his face.”
‘King Joyse lifted the cloth.’ Geraden shuddered. ‘It was terrible. But it would have been worse if the body hadn’t been frozen for ten days while the Tor was on the road.
‘When King Joyse saw it, he seemed to stand up inside himself. He took the body out of the Tor’s arms. He raised his head as if he was going to howl. There was so much outrage and hurt in him that it practically shouted from his face. I thought that finally – finally – he was going to get angry enough to do something.
‘I was wrong.’
Geraden made no effort to muffle his pain. ‘Adept Havelock chose that moment to say, “Joyse, it’s your move.” As if he didn’t know anyone else was in the room.
‘And King Joyse just collapsed.
‘His face crumpled, and he started crying – softly, almost not making a sound. “Oh, my old friend,” he said. “Forgive me. Forgive me.” Then he fell to his knees – he couldn’t hold up the weight any longer.’ Geraden was weeping himself, with his elbows hugged to his ribs and his hands across his chest. ‘As carefully as he could, he rested the Tor’s son on the floor. For a while, he bowed over the body. Then he got his feet under him again’ – Geraden had to grip his determination in both fists in order to say the words – ‘and went back to his game.’
For a while, Geraden stood still, fighting to regain control of his emotions while Terisa ached for him and the Tor and King Joyse and said nothing.
‘After that,’ Geraden resumed with a shuddering sigh, ‘he didn’t respond to anything. He didn’t give any orders for the funeral. He didn’t answer any questions. Maybe he forgot we were there. Eventually, he moved one of his pieces. As far as I could see, it improved Havelock’s position.
‘All this time, the Tor hadn’t said a word. He looked too stunned, too hurt, to say anything. I thought he was going to fall on his face. But now he pulled himself together a bit. “My son is dead,” he said as if maybe King Joyse had failed to notice that detail. “Is this the best you can do?”
‘The King still didn’t respond. Adept Havelock said, “Close the door on your way out.”’
Geraden shrugged. ‘Then Castellan Lebbick made us leave. Two of his men had to move the Tor by main force. But I was actually grateful. He did us a favor by getting us out of there.’
Abruptly, the Apt ground the heels of his palms into his eyes to force down his tears and his pain and his weakness. When he looked at Terisa again, his glare was red-rimmed and lost. Certainty had deserted him. More than anything now, he resembled a young man who was being broken by his involuntary instinct for disaster.
‘Castellan Lebbick was right,’ he said. ‘It would have been better if the Tor had been kept away. All I did was make his misery worse.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Terisa whispered, hating herself for her inability to help him, heal him. But there was nothing she could do for him except say, ‘I’m sorry.’
Later that day, alone in her rooms in the middle of the afternoon, with nothing to do except brood, she was standing at one of her windows and musing out toward the road when more riders appeared.
This group was larger than the Tor’s, more military in character. A trumpet announced the approach of the riders to the gate of Orison. Castellan Lebbick greeted them with an honor guard equal to the one which had met the Tor. Then they dispersed into the castle. But she still couldn’t make up her mind.
Saddith brought news with her supper. ‘Have you heard, my lady? Both the Fayle and the Armigite have come to Orison. Both have demanded audiences with King Joyse. And both have been refused.’ The maid was proud of her information, as if it came from some high, secret source. ‘It is said that the Fayle carries messages from Queen Madin and the lady Torrent. And yet he has been refused.
‘If the reports are true, he bears his disappointment stoically. Not so the Armigite. I have heard him. He wanders the halls, accosting whoever will listen and explaining his indignation.’ She tittered. ‘I am inclined to question his virility, my lady.’
When Saddith left, Terisa found that she had reached her decision. King Joyse was unwilling to meet with the lords of the Cares: he was unwilling even to receive a message from his wife. He was too far gone. Master Eremis was right. Mordant could only be saved now if someone else took charge of events.
She would have to go to him, talk to him, tell him what she knew.
It was possible that she would have to tell him about her secret conversations with Master Quillon and Adept Havelock. Not to betray them, but to help him; the information might make him more effective.
She made this decision because she wanted to do what was right. She didn’t mean to remain passive for the rest of her life. Her presence here made no sense – but as long as she was here, she had to make some effort to help. For Geraden’s sake, as well as for Mordant’s. He was too paralyzed – and too hurt – by his devotion to the King; he wasn’t able to see past his dislike of the Master. He was blind to the one fact she saw clearly: Master Eremis was the only man who had any chance of uniting the Congery and the lords against Mordant’s
enemies.
But she wasn’t thinking about Geraden – or about Mordant – when she finally reached her decision. She was thinking about the way Master Eremis had kissed her and touched her.
So the next morning, after a restless night, she got up early. She bathed. She washed and dried her hair. When Saddith brought her breakfast, she found that she couldn’t eat it. Instead of risking nausea, she asked the maid to help her put on the gown she had chosen the previous evening – a confection of mauve silk which clung to her thighs and made the hollow between her breasts look deep and desirable. Then she dismissed Saddith for the rest of the day, saying that she meant to spend it with the lady Myste.
Saddith winked at this obvious fabrication, grinned her approval, and left as if she had plans of her own.
When the maid was gone, however, Terisa remained in her rooms for quite a while. She told herself that she wasn’t hesitating – precisely. She was waiting for a decent hour. But the truth was that she had lost her confidence. Master Eremis was too much for her – too experienced, too adept, too powerful. Geraden had accused him of trying to manipulate her. He had certainly manipulated the Congery. The explanations he gave for what he did weren’t entirely satisfying. And apparently he was no longer interested in her.
Nevertheless in the end her resolve held. Around midmorning, she went to her door, unbolted it with an unsteady hand, and left her rooms.
One of the guards whistled at her softly through his teeth; she ignored him.
Descending from the tower, she panicked for several moments because she wasn’t sure of the route back to Master Eremis’ quarters. She hadn’t paid close enough attention on the one occasion when she had visited those rooms. And she thought she saw a man following her—
She glimpsed him three or four times, on different levels of the castle. He seemed to disappear as soon as she spotted him. But he was tall; he looked strong. A gray cloak hid his clothes and covered his head, but didn’t conceal the end of the long sword jutting down near his boots.
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